


Rendering Death and Forever

by Ani



Series: Unclose Me (The Falls) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, F/M, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-04
Updated: 2011-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ani/pseuds/Ani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And God did John kiss back, grabbed him and pulled him fierce, and Sherlock bit back too hard but that was okay, that was good, because reclamation was angry, and then Sherlock grabbed his hand and felt John’s ring."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rendering Death and Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2 of the Unclose Me series.

“ _Sherlock_.”

“Hello, John.”

“You - you’re -”

“Alive and here, yes,” he said, sounding amused - but his hand was trembling, when he reached up to gently stroke John’s cheek. John grabbed his head, held him, distracted by the hair under his fingers, distracted by the stare, having those eyes - _those eyes_ \- on him again, he felt like he was going to burst, he felt like he was going to faint - he held and held because what if Sherlock somehow slipped away, he _couldn’t_ survive a second time, and Sherlock was holding him too, grasping desperately. He was terribly thin, bruises all down his arms, a thin scar on his cheek, stitches peeking out of his collar, he looked like he was barely holding together. John realized how ridiculous they must look, embracing like it held death at bay, and almost laughed, which was certainly hysteria. Sherlock saw this, and grinned too, and they both started giggling. Giggled and clung together and then Sherlock was crying and gasping _John John John_ like a prayer and John caught his breath and asked _how_ , as a way to ask everything, and that was the point his voice broke and that was the point when Sherlock kissed him.

And God did John kiss back, grabbed him and pulled him fierce, and Sherlock bit back too hard but that was okay, that was good, because reclamation was angry, and then Sherlock grabbed his hand and felt John’s ring.

He stopped.

“You’re married.”

John swallowed hard and watched Sherlock lift his palm up with dedicated care, observing, and deduced. And it’d been so long since he’d seen him do it, since he’d seen that hard stare, so long thinking it’d _never happen again_ that he barely cared what Sherlock saw. Except that it was turning Sherlock dark and cold. “Five months. A woman.” He turned his gaze and catalogued John carefully. “She’s pregnant. You haven’t slept well in months and your arm is bothering you. But your limp never came back. These are new callouses, what are they from?”

“Knitting. And yes, you’re right, about everything.”

Sherlock immediately dropped contact and stepped back.

“Of course you’re right, you’re always right, you’re... you’re here and you... _what happened Sherlock_?”

“I suppose I could ask the same, but it’s obvious it’d be boringly ordinary.”

It was funny, how many times the floor could drop out from beneath you in a single conversation. John decided to sit down while it was still a choice. Sherlock dropped dramatically into the patients’ chair on the other side of the desk and crossed his arms. Brooding angrily, this was a state John recognized well now, which meant he hadn’t _really_ meant what he said. Not that this helped John as what, exactly, was Sherlock allowed to be angry about? This was such a good question he decided to voice it out loud.

“John, you - you added all these needless obligations! It will make things so much more _difficult_ , on the case.” Sherlock put his elbows on the table, grasping his hair. “You’ll have a _wife_ , you...”

John was about to say something very nasty about “needless obligations” and “ _what_ case?” when Sherlock took his left hand, the one he didn’t wear his ring on because he - and Sherlock stared at it and said, very quietly, “I thought you would wait.”

 _That_ was when John became angry.

“Wait? _Wait_? Sherlock, _you were dead_!”

“I would have waited,” he muttered stubbornly. “I waited. I waited every night thinking - thinking of you and -”

John couldn’t bear to wrench his hand away, so he didn’t, but he leaned close and hissed. “Sherlock, I waited. I barely - I barely survived and - at some point years later I thought I should try and scrape together the tiny remains your absence left me and make something before I disappeared entirely.”

“I would have told you if I could, but the risk was too high to be acceptable, it...”

“You died! You died! _I loved you and lost you and buried you_ , _Sherlock_.”

“I’d assumed things would remain sufficiently equivalent. My error.”

John stared at him and thought of the flat, and how perfect he’d kept it, and he thought about taking Sherlock back there and proving it, proving how much he loved Sherlock, how much he had suffered, and then that he had to _prove_ this ate him up again. He yanked his hand away, the loss so sharp a sting he had to press his fingernails deep into his palm to keep from touching Sherlock again.

“I killed Moriarty,” Sherlock said flatly. “But there was someone else. Less brilliant but more dangerous. He took over the work and I had to track him down. He and all the other high level officials, clean out the house quickly, enough to destroy it entirely. A lot of different people had to die, but I was successful, in the end.”

“And after you assassinated enough people?”

“I immediately returned.”

“So you faked your own death and you’ve been, what, running around underground to single-handedly take down an entire global criminal organization?”

“You romanticize.”

“And you just thought you’d stay out as long as necessary, years and years and years until...” John swallowed hard, stared at Sherlock’s hands, which were calmly laid before his, as if waiting. His thumb had recently been broken and there was a perfectly round burn scar on his wrist. “Until, what exactly, Sherlock, you died anyway and I just never knew? Or you come back after three years and expected everything to be exactly as you left them?”

“I’m not stupid, John. I expected changes.” The hands drew back, arms crossing. “I just did not anticipate these particular ones.”

“You feel betrayed.”

Sherlock made a dismissive huff, which meant John was right. He forced himself to look up, and catching those eyes saw Sherlock’s sadness, the firm set in his mouth, and felt like throwing up.

“Has it occurred to that genius brain of yours that I might feel a bit betrayed too?”

“I wanted to tell you John, please, believe me. There were so many nights I almost... but I had to keep myself a secret, in order to stop Moran. And to keep you safe. If he knew I had killed his Moriarty, and that you were waiting for me at home...”

John leaned forward. “Is that why you didn’t bring me with you? Because we both know how helpful I am when you want to _murder_ someone.”

Sherlock flinched, and tried to hide it by suddenly reaching into his pocket, lighting a smashed cigarette. “It was for you.”

“Because putting your casket in the ground was _so easy_.”

“I love you.”

He clearly thought that won the argument, because now he was staring at John through the smoke with a hopeless, desperate hunger. And fuck it all but he was right.

“I love you too,” he said, before he could stop himself. “That didn’t change.”

Sherlock startled upright, stabbing his smoke out on the desk and grabbing John’s coat, handing it out to him with a flourish. “Good then, perfect. I expect you’ll be properly angry at me for awhile and I can forgive that, but let’s go, we can find a place, I need to-”

“No.”

“No?” He slowed, slipping on his leather gloves with care. Analyzing. Studying for potentialities, discarding, reexamining, weighing conclusions. It was hard to hide things from Sherlock Holmes, and they both knew that he knew John very much wanted to follow him, where and when he’d like, that in a matter of hours they could be just like they were. Except.

“I can’t do that. I can’t do _this_ , Sherlock."

“No. Of course. Well.” He pulled out a phone, flicking his thumb in a quick scroll. “A case, then. We’ll-”           

“No. I quit. I quit the game, Sherlock.”

“You can’t - you can’t _quit_. You can’t stop...us, you can’t give up on _us_ , John.”

 John took his keys from the coat pocket, wrenched the black one off the ring, and held it out. “The key to the flat. It’s...it’s like you left it, I kept it up. But it’s yours, really. Now.”

 “Baker Street,” he murmured, and John said it too, not because he needed to confirm, but because it was like their prayer. “Thank you, John. But you won’t..?”

“I’ll visit.”

“Yes. Good. That’s good then. I’ll...call you.” And with that Sherlock Holmes pulled on his coat and opened the door and walked out.

John would have taken that moment to collapse except he heard a familiar voice offering soothing platitudes to a frantic sounding Sarah. He immediately stepped out, saw Sherlock bang through the front door, leaving them all behind.

“John!”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he told her. “He’s back, he... it’s fine.”           

“Oh my _God_ , John, what’s going on?” She grabbed his arm for support, looking pale and overwhelmed, which John imagined was a good indicator of his own appearance.

“I’d be happy to explain everything,” Mycroft said, “but I believe we should leave John alone at the moment.”

John summoned up a reassuring smile for her, and turned to Sherlock’s brother. “Mycroft?”

“Yes John?” he asked quietly, full of sympathy, eyes flickering to the two waiting patients, who Sarah immediately bustled over to.

“Did you know?”

Mycroft did not immediately answer. Which was how John knew.

So he punched Mycroft in the jaw.

The man clattered back against the wall, Anthea suddenly materializing at his side, offering her support. John left before Mycroft could admit that he'd deserved that or Sarah could ask how he was feeling. He walked out of the building and put on his coat while he waited for a cab and it took all he had to give the driver Mary's address.

Their address.

Right.

 

 

 

 John boiled through anger, and passed shock, and found himself mourning lost time, and from there feeling properly happy, the way he should have when he first saw Sherlock, _ecstatic, inexpressible joy, the miraculous_ and then all he had left in him was the knowledge that Sherlock lived, and John’s unceasing desperate need for him.

 

 


End file.
